Whistle & Boom
by kithicuscatticus
Summary: Anthem's in-game 'fight and flight' experience is fantastic, but I find the world building and supporting content a bit underwhelming. 'Whistle & Boom' is an ongoing serial that introduces a new point of view, with (hopefully) more thoughtful and nuanced takes on the world Bioware and EA have given us.
1. Chapter 1

When two Sentinels in power armor knocked down the door to the Freehold's inner keep, they found a pair of corpses. One lay slumped on the tile flooring of a kitchenette area, a smudge between his eyes leaking blood. An automatic pistol lay a few inches from his fingers. The second dead man sat on a sofa across the room, legs still crossed, a bullet hole through his right eye socket, heavy pistol holstered and strapped on his chest.

"Shapers' balls," Sentinel Drew said. His voice crackled from a grill in his armor's chest. "That's messed up."

"Headset mode only, rookie," Sentinel Pang said, in Drew's ear. "You're not a soldier anymore. When you put on that suit, you become an emblem of the Emperor's justice, of the peace and order His Majesty brings to this messy world. You'll refrain from using vulgarities and profanity while working as a Sentinel, or you won't be a Sentinel long. You understand me?"

"Yes, sir," Drew said, the external speaker cutting out after 'yes.' "Sorry, sir."

"We got two more doors in this room to clear. Look lively." Drew saw from the available schematic neither space was large enough to be anything other than a closet. Something told him Pang wouldn't be reassured.

"Okay, going to open the door in the southwest," Drew said.

"I've got your back," Pang said. Which meant, Drew knew, that Pang planned on staying a safe distance away, in case of booby traps. The armor they wore was designed to shrug off bullets and even grenades, but even the toughest composites and metals had limits. You didn't make it to Pang's age as a Sentinel unless you learned not to take chances.

Neither door was booby trapped. They both opened onto (surprise!) closets, stocked with food, ammunition, clothes, blankets, and medical supplies.

"The room's clear," Sentinel Pang told Drew. "Take a breath, but don't let your guard down completely," The faceplate to Pang's armor opened. Drew noticed; he quickly followed suit. His nose wrinkled. The smell in the room was coppery, choking. "I didn't mean literally take a breath!" Pang said, snorting with laughter. Drew felt embarrassed and annoyed; he powered through.

"Question, sir?"

"What's that?" Pang asked, leaning over the dead men in the kitchenette.

"What happened here? You said this was a welfare check?"

"Yep," Pang said. He stepped over to the body on the sofa, careful not to disturb the scene any more than they already had. He piloted the ponderous armor with a delicate grace that Drew admired. Pang ignored Drew and studied the scene in the Freehold's inner sanctum.

Freeholding was controversial in the parts of the world where humans struggled with giant spiders, self-organizing insect ecologies and ancient artifacts prone to remaking the terrain for hundreds of miles when set off. The Empire's official position was that while it would award land claims based on the traditional formula for establishing a viable Freehold in disputed territory, Imperial Sentinels could not commit to defending or assisting Freeholds in trouble. Out past the high walls of the Imperial strongholds, the reality was complicated. Large Freeholds, especially those wise enough to build at strategic locations or wealthy enough to maintain turrets and defensive positions, could expect help in times of trouble.

Smaller Freeholds, like the one Drew and Pang explored, depended on Sentinels at their peril. Drew had two days of experience working for the Sentinel organization, and even he could tell something was odd about their current mission. The smell of recently fired ammunition still lingered in the air when they arrived.

"Do you think-" Drew began. Pang shook his head.

"I think if you want to know what happened here, you should stop asking me so many questions and start paying attention to what's in front of your eyes. What do you see?"

"What do I see?" Drew blinked at Pang, who looked at him with eyebrows raised.

"Yes," Pang said. "Go on. Tell me."

"Two dead men?"

"That's a start. Anything special about how they died?"

"They've been shot," Drew said. Pang nodded.

"Important point. Okay. And?"

"The dead men are both armed," Drew said.

"That's common out here in the Disputed Territories," Pang said. "Even the kids walk around packing heat."

"That guy in the kitchen got his gun out, though," Drew said. "Something spooked him."

"Good," Pang said. "What about the other one, on the sofa?"

"He didn't have time to get his gun out," Drew said, slowly. "He got shot in the back of the head."

"Right. Based on the position of the bodies, entry and exit wounds, blood spatter, and scene analysis, the ballistics software says more than eighty percent likely the fatal shot for sofa guy came from someone sitting in that bed." Pang waved across the room. "Ninety percent likely that the fatal shot for the guy in the kitchen came from a few feet away, on the ground next to the bed."

Drew tried to visualize the scene.

"There must have been a third guy," he said. "Sitting in the bed." Pang nodded. "A third guy who doesn't seem to be here now," Drew said.

"A third guy who locked the door behind him," Pang said. "I just sent off the scene data for analysis. Base can ID the bodies for us. Maybe send crime scene specialists, depends on how much they give a damn about the case."

On the bottom right of his field of view, Drew saw a red light.

"Huh," Pang said. Drew squinted at the icon.

"What's that error? I don't think I've seen it before."

"We've lost connection with Base," Pang said. "I only saw it in the war with the Dominion, when…" Pang's eyes got wide. "_Cao_! Go into full defensive mode now, rookie!" Pang shouted. The older man's visor snapped shut. Drew made the necessary gesture, wondering what spooked Pang.

Drew heard a whistle, for a split second, and then an explosion roared in his face. Drew flew back, tumbled down and out. The world burned. The sky turned to smoke. Drew's eyes got blurry. He saw a parade of animated icons in daffy colors dance across the bottom of his HUD before Drew went dark, too.

The month Drew turned fifteen he and all the other kids born in March submitted to four tests spread out over two days, each test taking three hours. Drew enjoyed the break from regular school days. He didn't understand why his Ma and Pa got so tense about the tests until the afternoon the letter from the regional Governor came. Drew's scholarly, Arcane education was over. Basic training for military service was due to begin three days after Drew's receipt of the letter. Drew's parents talked about challenging the results and asking the Academy to let Drew retake the tests.

"I don't want to retake the tests," Drew said.

"Nonsense," his mother said. "Of course, you're going to retake them, if they let us, and this time you're going to do your best, you're not going to treat it like a big game."

Drew felt stubborn.

"I want to join the Army," Drew said. Drew's parents exchanged surprised looks.

"You wouldn't survive a day in the military," Drew's father said. "You think your mother and I are hard on you? You have no idea, mister. You're small for your age, you're still just a boy."

"Man enough to be drafted by the greatest army in the history of the world," Drew said. His heart thumped in his (not-quite developed) chest.

"Soldiering is a bad job for worse pay," Drew's father said.

"You served," Drew said. "Best days of your life, that's what you say..."

"Only when he's had too much to drink," Drew's mother said.

"The Scars are on our borders," Drew said. "You see the feeds?"

Drew's mother traded a look. Drew's parents didn't approve of the news feeds Drew watched. They preferred the reassuring voices of the state-run media, but at fifteen Drew considered himself a free thinker. Bonus, the footage of Sentinels emptying chain guns into hordes of exploding Scar looked cool.

"Things aren't always as simple as they make it seem on the feeds," Drew's father said. Not for the first time!

"Guess I'll find out for myself in seventy-two hours," Drew said.

"You really don't want us to even try to get you a retest?" Drew's mother asked. "That's crazy to me." She sounded forlorn, and for a moment Drew's anger flickered. "I've never been any good with tests," Drew said. "You know that, Ma."

"I do know, that's why you having a second chance at the exams is perfectly fair. Test taking just isn't your forte."

Drew's jaw clenched.

"I think I can be a good soldier," Drew said.

"You'll get yourself killed," Drew's father said.

When Drew woke up, he hurt everywhere. His HUD was gone.

"Hello, Jupiter," he said, tasting blood. "What hit us?" Red letters flashed on his screen.

_Personal assistant Jupiter not available. Suit status overview. HUD: offline. Weapons: offline. Strength augmentation: offline. Flight: offline. Ground mobility: offline. Comms: offline._

"Great," Drew said. "First week as a Sentinel, totaled a javelin." Drew took a breath, tried to stand. The effort hurt so much he squeaked. His suit didn't budge. Drew reconsidered. "Suit," he said. "I need you to open." He waited. Drew wasn't thrilled about the prospect of leaving his javelin, but what choice did he have?

_Authorization for in-mission suit exit required, _the screen flashed_. Contacting superior officer._

"Authorization for suit exit required? Are you kidding me?" Drew tried to make a fist, but his gauntlets refused to budge. Drew's anger got the better of him, and he fought furiously against the constraints of the suit, making animal sounds into his dead mic.

His suit stayed still. On his screen, a new message.

_Superior officer not responding. Escalating to HQ. Error: HQ not responding. Retrying HQ..._

If the comms unit is down, you're not going to get HQ," Drew said, in what he felt like was a reasonable voice. "Suit, I need you to open. Now!"

_Authorization for in-mission suit exit required. Contacting superior officer._

Drew groaned.

"Can you at least open up the helmet, let me see the sky? Get some fresh air?" Drew didn't get a response. After a few minutes, he tried again. "Suit, open faceplate!"

_Superior officer not responding. Escalating to HQ._

"The comm unit is still broken," Drew said.

_Error: HQ not responding. Retrying HQ... _

"Aw, don't bother," Drew said. He puffed out the air in his cheeks. He couldn't think of anything to do, except wait. Drew did not enjoy waiting, even when a library of movies was available for streaming into his HUD. In a busted suit with no comm link, all Drew saw looking straight ahead was darkness.

"If I was the hero in a serial vid," Drew said. "This is when I would have a meaningful flashback."

The still and dark of the suit didn't go anywhere. Drew felt an itch on his back; he scraped himself against the ruined interior of his javelin until a hard metal knob scraped against the offending itch. Drew licked his lips.

"Suit? Can you extend a water tube? I'm parched here."

_Error retrieving pilot data. _

Drew took a breath. This was a new error! Drew knew the Sentinels built anti-theft tech into their suits; he didn't want to be ID'd as a thief or find out what the Sentinel high command thought was an appropriate response to the theft of one of their suits.

"Suit, my Imperial ID number is THX 1139," Drew said. "I am the authorized pilot of this javelin."

_Escalating to superior officer._

"He's not going to answer. And HQ isn't going to answer."

Drew tried to focus on the feel of air passing over his lips. He let himself float, untethered, away from the stress of the moment.

Drew needed to get out of his ruined javelin. He accepted this as truth. He tried to open himself to possibilities, and as he hovered, tranquil, he had an idea: he might run out of air inside his suit.

Drew crashed back down to itchy, uncomfortable reality. He fought back a scream. He didn't have the air to spare. Drew felt scared. As scared as the first ten minutes of his first real combat in a javelin with opponents trying to kill him. The footage the news feeds Drew watched as a kid made the Scars look slow, stupid, easy to kill. The Scars turned out to be none of those things. As a grunt, Drew got lucky; he was teamed with three veteran javelin pilots, and when he froze they kept him alive long enough for him to stop freaking out and start doing enough basic soldier stuff, like running, taking cover, watching out for enemies and occasionally shooting back at the bad guys.

Another thing Drew's news feeds didn't warn him about? The sounds injured and dying Scars made. Even after he got his chain gun spinning, he didn't get the same rush he'd felt in the simulators when he knocked down Scars. Then again, in the simulators the Scars didn't flail about with their weird insect arms when they fell or try to push alien organs back inside shattered carapaces. Also, in the simulators, Scars didn't crouch by injured allies and wail.

Entombed in the armor that was supposed to allow him to fly, Drew felt angry. Not at the Scars, but at the news feeds he watched as a kid. They made things seem simple; everyone was either good or bad, no shades of gray. They twisted true things, to make them more exciting or because the truth didn't fit the story they wanted to sell the audience. Drew's parents tried to explain all that to him, but at fifteen Drew preferred the simple stories the feeds told him. The Emperor was wise and just. Scars were animals, eager to flood into the Empire and destroy everything humanity fought so hard to build.

At the thought of his Ma and Pa, even anger deserted him.

"Suit," Drew said. "How much air do I have left?"

_Error retrieving pilot data. _

"Terrific," Drew said.

When Drew went after the Sentinel job in a fort on the edge of the Imperium, he thought he was getting a chance to redeem himself. He was a good pilot, and outside the high walls of the Imperial settlements, he knew there was always a need for good javelin pilots. Video chatting with Ma and Pa a couple days back, Drew found himself talking about all the stuff you could do in a javelin that didn't require burning down Scar city-hives. He wanted to chase down criminals, protect people who wanted to live peaceful lives. If a Shaper relic turned itself on and started making chaos, he could shut it down. If Arcanists needed to explore a site in bad territory, Drew could help with that, too. Drew didn't mind the idea of wiping out skorpions, or even shooting Scars if they attacked, but he was tired of being a soldier. He was ready to do something more than just kill.

Staring at the void where his HUD should be, Drew wished he'd gotten another chance. How many lives could he have saved? How many bad people could he have stopped? How much good could he have done?

He blacked out.

He woke, a minute (a lifetime?) later, bright light dazzling him despite squinted eyes. He heard the familiar whoosh and grind of his suit opening. Drew sat up. The world tilted around him.

"You okay, rookie?" Pang's face came into focus.

"Yeah," Drew said. "I mean, yes sir."

"Stow that 'sir' shit right now, kid," Pang said. "Out here, without our suits, we act like civilians."

"What? Why? You're out of your suit," Drew said.

"Get up. We must go." Drew nodded. He tried to get up, staggered. Pang caught his arm.

"What's the rush?" Drew asked.

"The missile strike that took out our suits," Pang said. "Whoever sent them probably has a follow up team on the way. We need to go."

"Why would anybody hit this place?" Drew said. His dizziness subsided enough that he could look around. The compound was nothing but ruins, drifting ash flakes and patches of fire.

"I've got some guesses," Pang said. "Here's the real bad news, kid. The people who blocked our comms and sent the missiles?"

"Yeah?"

"Sentinel command," Pang said.

"What?" Drew said. He struggled to wrap his head around the significance. Why would command shoot down their own Sentinels? "That doesn't make any sense. It must have been a mistake."

"My suit's sensors registered a dozen different missile impacts and traced them back to our silos. Every one of those missiles cost about a million credits. You think Sentinel command makes many twelve million credit mistakes?" Pang shook his head. "Someone high up signed off, and not only did they not warn us, _pōfù_ blocked our comms and detection systems. They didn't want us to leave."

"That can't be true," Drew said.

Drew struggled because Drew thought of himself first and foremost as a loyal subject of the Emperor. He didn't like the idea that suddenly he was on the wrong side of his parents, friends, and everyone he'd ever known. Pang couldn't be right!

Pang shrugged. He crouched by Drew's suit look enough to confirm that there was nothing salvageable. He stood, stiffly.

"I think we stumbled on something at that compound we weren't meant to see," Pang said. "There is nothing"

"Where are you going?" Drew asked. "We're in the middle of the wilderness!" Pang, to Drew's surprise, laughed. The old man started walking away.

"Just because the Territories are disputed," he called back, "Doesn't mean that there's nobody out here, kid. There's a place twenty or thirty clicks from here, we can get a drink and maybe make some discreet inquiries about our official status with the Empire."

"What kind of place?" Drew wasn't as casual about a 'twenty or thirty click' walk as Pang seemed to be, not through a landscape of hostile alien creatures without so much as a pistol on either one of them. Drew picked up his pace.

"What kind of place?" he repeated.

"Outlaw city," Pang said.

Drew knew that the outlaws in the wilderness had their own settlements, hidden in caves, ruins and dense forests. Anywhere, really, they could avoid detection by Imperial javelins patrolling overhead.

"This place have a name?" Drew asked. Pang glanced back, frowned.

"Yes," Pang said. He turned his attention forward.

"Are you going to tell me?" Drew said.

"It's called Black Orchid," Pang said. He turned back and glared at Drew. "Don't freak out on me, okay, kid?"

Drew knew the name. Of course, he did! In the (semi-) historical movies, anime, and comics Drew loved watching, Black Orchid was legendary, an outlaw stronghold with its own javelin forge and police force. Also, brothels, taverns, and markets stuffed with goods from all over the world, from squawking chickens to crates of ammunition, Arcanist diagnostic tools and skinned grabbits. The city was supposedly run by a group of crime lords, mysterious and powerful but vulnerable to lone Imperial heroes who came looking for justice for a murdered family member and/or pet.

"You want me to follow you to Black Orchid?" Drew asked. Pang grunted, walked faster. Drew forgot, for a moment, about his aches and pains. He caught up to the other man. "Are you screwing with me, Pang? You're supposed to be a hard-ass Sentinel," Drew said. "How do even get into Black Orchid? I thought they shot Sentinels on sight!"

"They do," Pang said. "If you're stupid enough to fly in with your javelin." He didn't slow down, but his voice and manner lost the edge. "Where did you grow up, kid? Someplace far away here, right?"

"Yeah," Drew said, grudgingly.

"You're in for some surprises," Pang said. "Here on the Outside, humans stick together, even if we might have some differences of opinion. It's not like in the videos."

"So you're telling me there aren't skorpions, Scar, and Dominion strike teams just waiting to pounce on us?"

"Oh, no," Pang said. "The vids are right about all that stuff. But no sweat. Stick with me, kid. We'll get to Black Orchid."


	2. Chapter 2

When Yang explained how to survive Outside, Drew repeated the instructions to himself.

"Look for cover. Can be tall grass, rocks, even shadow. Get low. Move, but go slow. Watch the wind."

"Right," Yang said. "Also, keep both ears open. Ursix, wyverns, even spiders, they make lots of noise, easy to hear from far away. Striders, too. Dominion Storm model javelins, they got stealth tech you wouldn't believe, but they're military and don't usually give a damn about foot traffic."

"Foot traffic?" Drew asked.

"People not wearing suits or riding in Striders. Like you and me."

"Sergeant? Can I ask you a question, sir?"

"Don't call me that, kid. I may be resigning my Imperial citizenship, and even if not... out here, we act like civilians, okay?"

"I don't know why you don't want to go back to the Fort," Drew said.

"I told you to go back if you wanted," Yang said. "You can ask Sentinel command why they ordered a missile strike on our crime scene while they jammed all our comms."

"You're sure it was them?" Drew said. Miserably. He didn't like the idea of starting all over, especially not out in the wilderness. Drew wanted this all to be a mistake.

"Twenty two years I put into the Sentinels, three years from a full pension, you think I'm happy about our current situation? Damn right I'm sure, son. Okay, big stretch of tall grass ahead, let's see you practice those sneaking skills."

When Drew served in the military, he loved soaring through the air in his suit, even when the landscape beneath was full of angry people trying to shoot him down. He was skeptical about the whole sneaking around business. He did as Yang told him, staying low, moving forward at a slow pace, but focused on making progress. Drew heard a rumble, and a moan too deep for human lungs to duplicate.

A thirty-foot titan loomed in front of Drew.

Drew's instincts screamed he run away, backwards, any direction really provided he MOVED RIGHT NOW. Drew fought hard to stay still. A burning glob dropped from the thing's fists, igniting grass ten feet from Drew. Smoke curled in the air.

Drew felt like the existence of titans proved conclusively that the Shapers were not on the same team as human or even organic life. Shaper artifacts periodically gated the creatures in from whatever hell world spawned them, then left them to do what came naturally. For titans, that meant destroying everything in their path. During the war, Drew spent six months in a four-man squad of javelins dedicated to taking the creatures down when they threatened Imperial supply lines. Drew and his team practiced, strategized, and planned, and he still watched three squad mates die in separate encounters with the stone giants. When titans got close to death, they vented energy in unpredictable ways, throwing off heat and light and sometimes radiation in waves. Even javelins had limits, and even the best pilots had bad days.

The titan moaned again. A drop of sweat hung from Drew's nose, but he remained perfectly still. His heartbeat sounded like a booming bass drum in his chest.

The titan took a huge, lurching step away from Drew. Another. Then more steps.

"Go ahead and breathe," Yang said. Drew took a breath, grateful for the air in his lungs. "Good work with the titan. Staying still was exactly right. You run, they pick up the movement." Yang slapped Drew on the back. The two resumed walking, but this time stayed within easy talking distance.

"I could really use a drink," Drew said.

"Good news," Yang said. "There's a river on the way to Black Orchid, real close."

"I was thinking something stronger than water," Drew said. Yang snorted.

"You want to keep an eye on anything you eat or drink in Black Orchid," Yang said.

"I thought it wasn't as bad as the vids all say?" Yang shrugged. If Drew wanted an animated response, he was disappointed.

"You'll see for yourself, hopefully before dusk. The river is probably a half hour walk from here. Black Orchid's south gate is probably an hour's walk from the river."

"I can't believe we're really going to Black Orchid to hide," Drew said.

"Not to hide," Yang said. "We're going to make inquiries and establish connections."

"In a city of outlaws," Drew said.

"It's a city," Yang said. "Just like any other, there's good and bad people."

"Don't criminals run the place?" Yang bit his lip, raised his eyebrows. His tone remained conversational.

"Did you mean all that stuff you told me when you interviewed for the Sentinels? About how you wanted to be more than a soldier? And I said I could teach you to be a good cop?"

"Absolutely, I remember!" Drew said.

"You can start by forgetting all the videos you've seen and try using your own eyes. In an hour, maybe two, you get to see for yourself." Drew felt annoyed by the lecture. If Yang didn't want people to think the two of them were military, Yang needed to lay off on giving orders.

"You really think we might be walking for two more hours?" Drew said, instead. "Tarsis' beard! I miss my javelin so much. Or what about the teleporters the Dominion uses? Be nice to press a button and just zap wherever you want in the world." Yang shook his head.

"I heard every once in a while, those teleporters don't work right. People don't come back, or they come back saying they don't belong in this timeline. That they made different choices in life."

"That's..." Drew couldn't find the right word to express his combination of horror (at the idea of materializing in vacuum or, worse, something solid) and disgust (at the Dominion for their obsession with technology and innovation at all costs.) "Messed up," Drew finished, lamely.

"We're living in a fractured world," Yang said. "Sometimes I think, if the right person came along, they might be able to convince all of humanity to play nice. Maybe, who knows, even come to some sort of truce with the Scar. It's a big planet. Might be space for both of us."

"I don't know how many people would be happy about the idea of a truce with the Scar," Drew said.

"I don't know, either," Yang said. "Like I said... fractured. People are scared and angry. I also think the right person, but with bad intentions, could crash human civilization on this planet."

"You're not serious," Drew said. "Tell me you're not being serious."

"Hmm? Forget I said anything," Yang said. "I'm an old soldier, common as dirt. What do I know?"  
Drew wondered.

Three hours later, after finishing a long drink from the river, Drew spotted more people travelling on foot. All four wore white robes, identity-concealing masks, and large backpacks that Drew thought looked full and heavy. Drew jogged up the river bank to tell Yang. When he tried to find the group to show the older man, he couldn't locate them.

"Darn it," Drew said. "I saw them, I swear. Other side of the river. And now they're gone."

"I believe you," Yang said.

"You do?"

"There's a hidden canyon in the direction you're pointing. Only way in to Black Orchid."

"That's really where you want to go?" Drew asked.

"Want? No. No. What I want is to go back home, to the base. I want to go to this little noodle place I like, where they serve Fortuo's brew beer in cold mugs, sweet talk the owner into changing the vid channel from news to javelin racing, and what the hell, since it's not happening, maybe throw in a pretty girl giving me a back rub. But I'm not getting what I want. Not for a while. Maybe never. Right now, I can either do what I need to survive or sit down and cry. Some days it's okay just to sit and cry. But today isn't one of those days."

"I never said I wanted to sit down and cry," Drew said. He sounded defensive.

"Of course not," Yang said, shaking his head. "Anyway. You ready to get going? The sun's setting. I want to get inside the city walls before dark."

In one of the videos Drew liked, the gates of Black Orchid were a pair of gigantic thirty foot tall doors, cut into the side of a mountain, with a stylized illustration of a single orchid splashed across both.  
In another video series, traffic into Black Orchid was separated into a dozen lanes, each carved into the base of a giant basalt rock formation resembling a skull. Goons in black uniforms swarmed around every lane.

Reality turned out to be more cheerful but less visually impressive. The 'gate' was just the hatch of a giant pipe. To the right of the hatch, over a cluster of shacks, Drew appreciated the neon sign reading "WELCOME to Black Orchid." In front of the closed hatch, a line of people carrying sacks, baskets, boxes, and wire cages crowded with anxious poultry, waited. The line stretched, but didn't move.

"Nuts," Drew said. "When do they close the gates? Are we even going to get in?" He intended the questions for Yang, but a stranger in front of them in line turned and answered.

"They close the gates at midnight. First time visiting the city?" The stranger wore a full coverall with a hood, and a mask with a rebreather attached. The coverall was white, the hood yellow, mask and rebreather dull black and pitted from exposure. Drew struggled. He didn't want to answer, but he worried that if he ignored the stranger's question, the guy might pick a fight.

"Hey now," Yang said, to Drew. "Nephew! I'm paying you to be my translator, not make friends." Drew felt a rush of relief.

"Sorry, Uncle," Drew said to Yang. He felt, rather than saw, the stranger behind him pull away. Drew went to thank Yang.

That's when he saw her.

The colossus armor she piloted was an antique rig, with mismatched greaves and metal plates bolted over holes in the chest frame. Drew didn't notice. He barely registered the autocannon and grenade launcher strapped to the colossus.

Drew's attention was on the pilot's face. Her faceplate was open. Red hair, Drew noted, in a daze, along with freckles. Snub nose.

"Listen up!" The young woman called out. "We're going to be opening the gates in a few minutes. We've got rules. No full javelins or powered armor pieces allowed inside Black Orchid. No killing, either, unless me or somebody else in City Security says it's cool. We're the ones wearing the javelins, so we're pretty hard to miss. That's all the official rules, but here's one more to remember: if me or any else in City Security catches you hurting any of the kids in town, we'll kill you on the spot, no questions asked."

"Damn," Drew said. Yang scrutinized Drew's face.

"Oh, no," Yang said.

"She's amazing," Drew said, into Yang's ear.

"She's something," Yang agreed. Drew smiled at the woman in the power armor. Yang winced. "But look, you know, we want to keep a low profile..."

The woman in the colossus armor turned her head, searching. She stopped on Drew and his smile. She moved towards them, hydraulics pumping.

"Nice smile," the red head said. "Never seen you before. Who's your buddy there? Sir, please don't hide your face! You're making me nervous!" Yang dropped his hands. He looked defiant, but also (Drew didn't think this was possible) embarrassed.

The redhead swung her autocannon in Yang's direction. Drew blinked. He heard the gun's motor spin up. Drew swallowed, hard, but the knot in his throat didn't go away. People behind them in line edged away. The stranger in the white coverall stayed put, not bothering to conceal his interest in the exchange.

"You've got a lot of nerve, showing up here," the red head said.

"Hello, Jewel," Yang said. Drew noted the name. Yang didn't look at the large gun pointing at him or sound particularly worried. "How is your mother these days?"

"Oh, like you care."

"I do care. I text her all the time, video her, she never answers. Last time I came here, two years ago, she threatened me with her Radiant Fortress, said she's put twelve shells in my gut if she ever saw me again."

The gun's motor died.

"That does sound like Mom," Jewel in the colossus armor said. She lowered the massive chain gun. "You could have come by and said hello to me, though," she said. Yang raised his eyebrows.

"Last time I saw you, you said I was a creepy old man whose only redeeming quality was my capacity for violence." Jewel frowned.

"I don't remember saying that? But. Um. Does sound like me. Welcome back?"

"Thank you," Yang said. "Good to see you, Jewel. You handle that rig well."

"Mom was a great teacher."

"Maybe you learned a little from me?"

"Not really," Jewel said.

"Okay," Yang said. "Fair enough. I know you're busy, but for old time's sake... is Lobster Boy still selling intel out of the Dew Drop Inn?"

"It's called the Circuit Break now, but yeah. Same place. Same guy. This a business trip for you, Uncle?"

"It's business," Yang said, "But personal business."

"Hi," Drew said, to Jewel. "I'm Drew."

"What's personal business mean?" Jewel said, to Yang, ignoring Drew.

"You asking as my ex-girlfriend's kid or City Security?"

"I get different answers based on what I say?"

"Sure. You say City Security, I tell you we're just here for whores and opium. You ask as your Mom's kid, I tell you me and Drew here are most likely being hunted at this very moment by my old employer." Jewel's face changed as Yang spoke.

"City Security can't help you with bounty hunters," Jewel said, frowning. She sounded protective, almost. "What are you people looking at?" Jewel barked at people in line gawking at her, Yang and Drew.

People turned heads and pretended not to be interested.

"We just want to chat with the Lobster, figure out our official status, and then most likely pick a new team," Yang said, in a soft voice.

"You've got options. There's a Dominion embassy in the northwest district," Jewel said. "You could also talk to a Council rep. CS is always looking for veteran javelin pilots."

"They all want a loyalty pledge, and for new recruits to start at the bottom of the ladder." Yang said. "Which I understand. But I want to be absolutely sure this isn't all a big mistake before I start my career over."

A klaxon sounded. A red light flashed.

"Door's opening," Jewel called out. "Mind the gap as you go inside." She turned back to Drew and Yang. "Come see me before you leave, Uncle Wally, let me know how things turned out. My Mom hangs out at the Star Trucker cafe, so probably don't go there, okay?"

"Thanks, Jewel," Yang said. "You grew up right, kid."

"Thanks entirely to my Mom," Jewel said. "Ugh. Gotta go. Be safe, Uncle Wally." She put a hand up to her ear piece as she stalked away.

"Nice meeting you, Jewel!" Drew called out.

"She can't hear you," Yang said. "I taught her how to pilot a javelin, for the record."

"Sure," Drew said, generously. "Shaper's balls, she's beautiful!"

The line surged forward.

The guy at the gate waved Drew and Yang through after Jewel whispered in his ear. They walked through the hardened entrance tunnel and a second open gate before stepping out into a huge open underground space, lit entirely with gas lamps and candlelight.

The smells hit Drew first. Incense, sharp and sweet. Fish. Curry. Manure. Pipe leaf. He heard the sizzle of meat on skewers, the shouts of men and women selling seed, fruits, vegetables, tools die-cast and forged, guns, ammunition, body armor, card readings, hot pies and cold fusion generators. Most vendors occupied small stalls, crammed together along the pedestrian walk ways, but some hung banners claiming entire buildings. Everywhere Drew looked, he saw life, teeming. Dice games and dogs, moms chasing kids chasing cats, 'gently used' masks, rebreathers and vintage vape gear sitting on blankets, keeping company with a kid's Willy the Wyvern bulletproof backpack/parachute/inflatable tracking device. Drew felt nostalgic, looking at the Willy the Wyvern illustration.

"Told you I'd get you to Black Orchid," Yang said. "Not bad, right?"

"Pretty lively," Drew agreed. "Too bad we don't have any money. I could really use a drink."

"A friend of mine owns a bar," Yang said. "He'll advance me some money. You can have all the drinks you want while I go talk to Lobster Boy." Drew grunted.

"What's up with that name, anyway?" Drew asked. "Lobster Boy sounds like... does he have a disability?"

"That's the name he chose," Yang said, with a shrug. "And I don't know if he's disabled, exactly, but he's definitely different."

"How different?" Drew asked. Yang shrugged.

"Lobster Boy is a Scar," Yang said. "So. Pretty damn different?"


	3. Chapter 3

Drew wondered why everyone in the bar wore masks. He tried to focus on his drink, but the glass was dirty, and the ice smelled faintly like sulfur. The booze burned Drew's throat, which he appreciated, but couldn't fully enjoy; Drew wanted to keep his wits about him.

If Drew was being honest with himself, he felt freaked out.

The other bar patrons didn't do anything to reassure him. Only a few seemed openly hostile, shoving and shouldering him on his way to the loo and daring him to lose his temper. Drew wasn't impressed. Military service didn't turn out the way he hoped, but he did learn how to ignore jerks trying to troll him. Most of the customers ignored Drew, hunched over their drinks or water pipes, and that was fine by him. Drew couldn't shake the feeling he was being watched. He wasn't sure whether to trust his instincts (the same instincts that said to trust everything he saw on the vid channels and not a single thing his parents said.) He took another burning sip from his glass.

Drew didn't like the idea of sharing oxygen with Scar. He didn't understand how Yang could be so chill about working with one of the monsters.

"Hey," Drew said, to the bartender, a short pot-bellied man with a walrus moustache, "Can I ask you a question?" Drew didn't slur his words, but he looked at his glass with new respect. Strong!

"We don't sell answers," the bartender said. "Do you want another drink?"

"No," Drew said, putting his hand over the top of his glass. "I'm good." The bartender grunted, moved away.

Drew grew up believing Scar were no better than fleas, termites or water bugs, suitable for extermination when spotted. You squashed a mosquito trying to draw blood from your arm, you didn't apologize. You didn't reason with a wasp's nest if you found one hiding under the eaves.

"Hey," the bartender said, to Drew, startling him. "Someone wants to buy you a drink."

"What?" Drew asked, forehead wrinkled.

"Free drink. Ask from who?"

"From who?" Drew repeated, obediently. The bartender with the walrus moustache pointed down the bar. Drew looked. He recognized the guy, or his white coverall, anyway: this was the guy who tried to talk to him while they waited in line. Drew didn't like the idea he'd been followed; he was even less comfortable being followed by someone who apparently never took off their rebreather.

"No thanks," Drew said, speaking loudly and making sure his gaze hit both the bartender and White Coverall. The drink was already poured, sitting next to Drew's original glass. The bartender pretended he didn't hear or see Drew.

"I do not wish you any harm," White Coverall said to Drew, in a clipped, artificial voice. "I am interested in hiring a javelin pilot. I overheard your companion say he trained CSO Jewel. I infer you are a pilot as well?"

Drew eyed White Coverall. He remembered what Yang said about keeping to himself, but Shapers' balls! Drew wasn't a kid.

"Why do you need a javelin pilot?" Drew asked. The stranger got up, switched seats to be closer to Drew.

"My motive is confidential," White Coverall said, in a softer voice. "But my confidence that you are also a javelin pilot has increased. Pay and responsibilities will be commensurate with experience."

When Drew heard the shotgun pump, his heart skipped a beat, but he didn't panic. The shotgun wasn't aimed at Drew, but Mr. White Coverall. Yang's finger rested comfortably on the trigger.

"I told you before, nephew," Yang said. "You're not to go socializing with the locals."

"I am seeking multiple javelin pilots," White Coveralls. "Pay and responsibilities-"

"I heard," Yang said. He lowered the gun barrel. "Give me your contact info. I might know someone."

Drew's head swiveled. His eyes popped. Yang glared back at him.

"The work is urgent," White Coverall said.

"You're on private property," Yang said. "And I'm friends with the owner. If I shoot you in the head, he'll make me pay to have the mess cleaned up."

"I don't get paid enough to clean up the dead bodies," the bartender said.

"Otherwise, I won't suffer any bad consequences for shooting you dead," Yang finished. "So thanks for the offer. Don't call us, we'll call you. Get out here, and leave my nephew alone, you hear me?"

White Coverall dropped a card on the bar. If Drew was in his javelin, scanning the card would provide detailed contact info. Stuck in real life, Drew only glimpsed silvery script before Yang reached over and pocketed the card.

When the stranger disappeared through the bar's front door, Drew was surprised to feel his stomach muscles relax.

"What's up with that guy?" Drew asked Yang.

"What's up with you?" Yang said. "I ask you to sit still for an hour-"

"More like two hours," Drew said. "And that guy only approached me because heard you lying about training CSO Jewel."

"I was telling the truth," Yang said.

"She didn't exactly back you up," Drew said.

"We've got a complicated relationship," Yang said.

"And you ditched me to go conspire with a... a... Scar!" Drew blinked when he heard the words come out of his mouth. "Sorry," he began. Yang slapped him on the shoulder.

"Nah," Yang said. "Don't apologize. Maybe we both could have handled things better." Yang swung into the seat next to Drew. He raised a finger. The bartender obliged him with a glass bottle, already open, with a purple wax seal but no label. Yang poured dark beer into a waiting glass. He took a long sip, smacked his lips. "That's the good stuff," he said.

"Did you meet the Scar?"

"I did," Yang said. "We're listed as missing, presumed dead, with the Sentinels."

"That's great," Drew said. He felt hopeful, for the first time in a long while. His stomach muscles (which he didn't realize were clenched) relaxed.

"The bad news is there's a bunch of sealed Corvus warrants associated with our profiles," Yang said.

"Corvus warrants?"

"Yeah. Could be orders for our arrest, detainment, assassination... anything. Or nothing."

"Why are they sealed?"

"Maybe because Corvus knows the Imperial networks aren't secure? Lobster Boy can beat the Corvus security, get us access to those warrants... but he wants more than just credits. He wants us to do a job for him."

"You cannot seriously be asking me to do a job for a Scar," Drew said. Yang grunted.

"I don't take any pleasure saying this kid, but I don't think you've gotten the whole story on the Scars." Drew felt irked.

"Ever since Scars showed up," Drew said, "They've been trying to wipe out humanity. Until we drove them out of Bastion, Scars set off Cataclysms all the time, killing innocent people by the tens of thousands. What part of the story did I miss?"

Yang took a long drink from the glass bottle with the purple wax seal. He belched.

"They were here first," Yang said. "Long before humans showed up, Scars ruled this whole damn planet. We invaded. Killed whole nations of Scar. Some of their leaders triggered Cataclysms, that's true, and they killed a whole bunch of humans, and those miserable bugs deserved what they got. But Scars are like humans; some are good, some bad, and most are in the middle. Some Scars want war with humans. Most don't. They just want to raise their grubs or, I don't know, impress the other hive minds on their block."

Drew folded his arms around his chest. He didn't like Yang's tone, which was fine and to be expected in a sergeant, but Yang kept saying they couldn't go back to the Sentineld, and that he wasn't in charge.

"Thanks for the lecture, but... I'm still not inclined to do any work for a Scar," Drew said.

"Okay," Yang said.

"Okay?" Drew repeated, cautiously. "You're not going to argue with me?"

"Not tonight," Yang said. "We got rooms upstairs. I say we get a good eight hours sleep, eat a big breakfast, then figure out where we go next."

"I want to go home," Drew said. Yang nodded.

"Me, too." Drew waited for more, but Yang's attention was on his drink.

"You really think this Corvus stuff is serious?" Drew asked, finally. Yang shrugged.

"I don't know. Not even sure it's related, but Lobster Boy said all the files relating to our last mission have been classified top secret."

"What does that even mean?" Drew wondered.

"Wish I knew," Yang said. "Not a mystery we're going to be able to solve for a while, though." Yang tilted his beer bottle high in the air, placed the empty gently on the bar, belched again.

"Another?" The bartender, Drew observed, had a knack for appearing just when drinks went dry.

"Not for me," Yang said. "Thanks anyway. I'm heading upstairs." He fumbled in his pocket, produced a swipe card. "I'm in pod 251," he told Drew. "You're in 255. I'll come get you tomorrow morning."

"Another drink for you?" The bartender waited. Drew shook his head.

"Been a long day for me, too," Drew said.

In a chamber not much larger than a coffin, Drew lay on his back and stared at a blank televid screen. The designers of the pods didn't anticipate an occupant who wasn't carrying a PDA. Drew didn't mind the quiet. When the day started, he was a Sentinel, a peace officer, piloting one of the best suits of power armor the Empire produced. Since then, he'd been hit with a cruise missile, lost his armor and his job, fled to an outlaw refuge and now he was facing the prospect of working for, not against, a Scar.

Drew thought of Jewel and smiled, like an idiot, at the blank screen of his pod. The delicate nose, full lips, the playfully drawn constellation of freckles across her face, all blended together into what Drew saw as unique beauty. When she got stern, he loved the way her eyebrows furrowed.

Drew knew some guys and girls might be intimidated by the fact Jewel was a cop as well as a javelin pilot. Drew did not mind! His favorite memories of serving in the Imperial Army involved female engineers who liked getting their hands dirty.

Drew wondered if it was silly for a guy in his twenties to get a crush on a girl at first sight. He yawned, and all at once the fatigue of the day caught up with him. Sleep washed Drew away.

Drew dreamed.

He stood in darkness, almost total, but on the horizon a speck of red light flared. Drew shuffled towards the light. In the darkness around him, he heard things. Thumps. Whispers. Sighs. Drew moved faster; his feet and ankles barked against unseen obstacles that might have been roots, branches, snakes, or maybe all three? Drew knew he was dreaming; he tried to calm down, but he struggled to stop his heart from beating fast, or the sweat from trickling down his cheek.

The world accelerated around Drew. The fire grew from a speck to a roaring campfire, fed by a man in a Dominion officer's uniform who looked almost exactly like Drew.

All the men lounging around the crackling fire resembled Drew. Number two's hair was cut short, in the outlaw fashion, and his clothes managed to look expensive and disreputable at the same time. The third Drew wore a clean Sentinel jumpsuit.

"Hey," the fourth man at the fire said. This Drew wore dark green military-style body armor, unmarked with any insignia or banner. The scar stretching from his ear to his lip was healed, but raised and impossible to miss. He pointed at Drew. "This guy hasn't made his choice yet."

"You have to pick a side," Drew in the Sentinel suit said.

"He can do whatever he wants," outlaw Drew said.

"Our choices define us," Drew in a Dominion's officer uniform said. "He needs to pick a side, for his own sake."

"Can I pick my own side?" Drew asked. The others looked at the Drew in the body armor, who laughed.

"You bet you can," he said. The scar twisted his smile in funny ways.

Drew, half-awake, banged his head against the blank vidscreen in his pod. He groaned and collapsed backward, into the mattress. He rubbed his forehead.

When Yang woke him up, Drew didn't remember falling back asleep. His mouth tasted like he'd been eating dirt from a graveyard and he swore his eyelids physically hurt from exposure to sunlight. Only Drew's experience in the military got him up and going. He threw up in the sink of the stainless steel, self-washing bathroom Yang's friend charged his guests to use. Drew immediately felt better. By the time he met Yang in the lobby, along with a stream of other vagrants, migrants and subsistence workers, Drew's mood was decent.

"What do you want for breakfast?" Yang asked.

"You treating?" Drew asked, cautiously.

"Sure, nephew. I know you don't have your ID or credit chip," Yang said, "And even if you did, I hope you wouldn't be dumb enough to use it." Drew thought for a moment, dismissed the idea that Yang was concerned about Drew's financial well-being.

"You think we're being tracked?" Yang shrugged.

"You like waffles?" Yang asked, cheerfully.

"Sure, but... you know what I really want?" Drew said. "Doughnuts. Coffee. Eggs."

"We'll go pick up donuts from this one place," Yang said. "Sit down for a real breakfast at another."

Drew loved food. He was mostly content stuffing his face with whatever was convenient; frozen bricks of pizza, reheated veggie patties slathered with chi-se, soy chips and pseudoqueso, supplemented with chocoyum bars and tubs of ice creamish. He didn't hide the fact his palate was more subtle, but Drew didn't advertise the fact, either. In the Army, some of the guys mocked Drew's interest in cooking. Drew didn't care what knuckleheads thought, but he also didn't appreciate the teasing.

When Drew's bleary eyes took in the donuts on the racks of the stall, the gourmet in him thrilled. These very slightly irregular beauties didn't spring from a pre-mixed batter, squirted into an automated fryer. Some person mixed butter, flour, eggs, a splash of vanilla and ingredients to taste and dropped the batter into a fryer, dusting some with sugar, others with glaze or a thin layer of chocolate.

"Two blueberry bismarks, a raspberry bismark, one red velvet cake donut, one key lime pie pocket, and an Illium crema," Drew said, finally. Paper crinkled, trays in the case slid out in uneven increments. Yang handed Drew the closed box of doughnuts and dealt with the stall's cashier.  
Drew took a bite of blueberry bismark. The filling was sweet, but the sweetness enhanced the flavor of the blueberries rather than overwhelm them. The donut itself was light and flaky. Drew approved.

"These are fantastic," Drew said. He offered the bag to Yang. "Might be the best donuts I've ever had."

The paper bag exploded at the same moment Drew's ears registered the sound of a bullet whistling past. The marketplace erupted with screams. Another shot cracked in the air. Some people ran for the alleys, others dodged through traffic in the street, trusting in the sensors and programming of the autopilots. Drew ducked for cover behind the donut stand. He found Yang. Another shot sounded; Drew risked a peek around the corner, trying to spot the shooter. He dodged back.

"Hey, Yang," Drew said. The older man licked his lips, but he didn't answer. Drew took a good look at his companion, and despite his best efforts to keep his face from betraying himself, his eyes got wider.

A red stain on Yang's jumpsuit, centered on the right side of his chest, was steadily growing larger. His right arm clamped over his chest. Yang' s left arm hung limp at his side. His face looked waxy.  
"Run," Yang told Drew, calmly. Sweat dripped from Yang's forehead. "No reason to make life easy for bounty hunters," he said, taking shallow sips of air every few syllables.

Some part of Drew considered the idea of retreat. Who was Yang to him, anyway? If he wasn't Drew's sergeant, then he was just some guy Drew didn't know very well. Okay, he freed Drew from his locked-up Sentinel armor, and he taught Drew how to sneak around a Titan, of all things... but those things were basically Yang's job, right?

Even as those arguments played out in Drew's head, he knew he wasn't going to run away. Drew knew his limitations; he wasn't the world's smartest guy, not when it came to formal education or knowledge of Arcanist lore, whatever. Drew had different strengths. Different values.

Loyalty to people who were good to him was one of those values.

"No, sir," Drew said. Another gun shot. Splinters showered down a hole a few inches above Drew's head. Drew's heart pounded.

"Get," Yang said.

"Sorry," Drew said. "I'm not going anywhere. Uncle."


	4. Chapter 4

Drew's first crush was the older sister of his best friend in school. Cal was small and bespectacled and was fascinated by stories of the Urgoth. Jocelyn was two years older, with insight into the adult world, curly copper hair and breasts that interested Drew a lot more than Cal's enthusiastic explanations for why the Urgoth left no monuments, buildings or archeological record. Drew never told Jocelyn how he felt. She dated older guys, tough ones, with shaved heads and facial tattoos. Thirteen year-old Drew was doughy, clumsy and terrified of rejection.

He took some comfort building scale models of javelins. The Colossus was his favorite; after he completed the build, he took the pieces apart and started again. He wanted his model to look as massive (and at the smoothly engineered) as the real-life images he saw on the news feeds. For a stretch of many months, Drew used his allowance to buy stickers and paint; his model Colossus went from blue to green to gray to red. The joints in the shoulders, elbows, wrists, hips and knees lost motion as Drew added layers. As he stuck out his tongue and painted, Drew imagined himself soaring through waterfalls, diving to cool himself, effortlessly blasting up and over the high cliff walls that made getting around on foot through much of the Disputed Territories difficult and time-consuming.

At the Arcanist classes mandatory for Imperial kids, Drew's teachers urged him to turn his passion for his model javelins into something realistic. If he studied hard, he could be a mechanic, or maybe find work in building construction. When Drew said he wanted to be a pilot, his instructors got funny looks. Usually, they left Drew alone after that.

Drew never admitted to Jocelyn - or Cal - how he felt about her. The crush lived and withered, alone, in darkness. The same thing might have happened with Drew's first love, but fortunately for Drew, Stephania was not shy.

They met on the first day of basic javelin training, both in freshly-issued Imperial sweats, shivering under a gray pre-dawn sky. With his hair buzzed, Drew worried he looked like he was fourteen. Stephania looked like a model in the ads the Army ran. Drew wanted to lie down and die after the first hour of training. His lungs burned. Drew wondered if the ache in his side signaled the onset of a serious cardiac event. Stephania slowed down to give him a pep talk, which was mortifying for Drew. Worse, she wasn't even breathing hard!

The first day of basic training established a daily pattern. Up before dawn, all recruits did cardio, balance and strength training for two hours before being granted twenty minutes in the cafeteria to shovel down as much food as they could. After breakfast, recruits spent the rest of the morning working on basics of javelin operation: flight, movement, and understanding the HUD. Lunch was a half hour, followed by three hours of handheld weapons training. Everyone got training on assault rifles. Depending on which of the four javelin types you got assigned (Ranger, Colossus, Storm, Interceptor) you got trained on different weapons. Sniper and long-range rifles for the less heavily armored javelins; chain guns, grenade launchers and flamethrowers for the Colossus.

Drew assumed weapons training would be the easy part of his day, a chance to pop off some rounds in an air-conditioned shooting range. Drew was wrong. The recruits started at a shooting range, but after an hour the instructors began pulling together squads and training them to coordinate, both offensively and defensively. From Drew's perspective, this translated into more running around, but while wearing a heavy kit and lugging around an assault rifle that weighed as much as the real thing but only fired a splash of harmless laser light.

Drew died a dozen times, his first day.

"If that buzzer on your gun goes off, that means you're dead!" The instructor yelled at the recruits. "The goal of this exercise is very simple! Take out your opponents without getting killed!

The field on which the teams practiced was sod. 'Cover' consisted of cardboard cutouts, weighed down with bags of sand. Stone-faced instructors circled and took notes. Stephania almost looked regretful as she shot him down, over and over. She didn't gloat when the instructors complimented her, or even smile. The last round, trying to avoid another fatality, Drew slipped in mud. He landed on his back. His gun beeped cheerfully. The whistle signaling the end of practice blew. Drew's three squad mates abandoned him. Stephania waited.

"You here to rub it in?" Drew asked.

"What are you talking about?" Stephania asked.

"You know what I mean," Drew said. "You've been kicking my ass all day long."

"You've got good instincts," Stephania said. "You're going to be fine." Drew started to say something bitter, but he stopped himself.

"Thanks," Drew said. "You're... how did you get so good?" They walked as they talked. Drew was keenly aware that they only had an hour to shower, eat.

"I've trained a lot," Stephania said. "My Dad is a Sentinel. Mom left when I was a baby. I literally grew up in a javelin. What about you?"

"Suburban ark," Drew said. "Mom and Dad, still together, very picturesque."

"But not for you?" Stephania said.

"When I was growing up, I remember, the only time my Dad sounded happy was when he talked about serving in the military. Plus, you know, there's the threat at the border."

Stephania laughed, checked Drew's expression, sobered up.

"You're serious," she said. "Sorry."

"What do you mean?" Drew said. "Why did you just laugh?"

"I'm sorry," Stephania said. "I shouldn't have."

"You don't believe the news feeds?"

"Sure I do," Stephania said. "About as much as I believe in the Urgoth." Drew started to smile, but stopped halfway through.

"You really don't trust the stuff they show on the Imperial Post?" Drew felt scandalized.

Stephania grabbed Drew by the front of his coveralls, dragged him close, got into his personal space. They hung together, nose tip to nose tip, before Stephania moved a fingertip down Drew's cheek.

"Fraternizing with squad mates isn't allowed," Stephania said. Her finger fell away, but she didn't pull back.

"No?" Drew said. Drew felt electrified, his eyes locked on Stephania's lips.

"I don't believe what they say on the IP because it's propaganda," Stephania said. Her grip on Drew's collar stayed tight.

"That's not true," Drew said, but (much to his own surprise) he discovered he was more interested in continuing to have a conversation with Stephania than in winning this particular argument.

Stephania let Drew loose, socked him on the shoulder.

"Come on," she said, "You need a shower, and we both need to eat."

"Is your dad really a Sentinel?" Drew asked.

"Yup," Stephania said. "If he was here, he'd tell you the IP is full of crap. The Emperor likes to keep people scared, because people who are scared are easy to manipulate."

"I'm not scared of anything," Drew declared. Stephania laughed, again.

"You're an idiot," she said. "But you're kind of cute, kid."

"Yeah?" Drew said. He blushed. "You, too," he told Stephania. "Kid."

"Kid, c'mon," Yang repeated, "Get out of here! Don't make it easy on these bastard bounty hunters!" Drew shook his head. He felt oddly calm.

A man holding a large pistol stepped into view. His face was obscured behind a mask. The barrel of the pistol hovered between Yang and Drew.

"Both targets acquired," the man said, softly. "Number one is gut-shot. Is the client okay if I just shoot him now?"

A second man stepped out of the shadows, also masked, also holding a gun. He aimed his gun at the first man's head. The first man relaxed, held his hands up. He did not holster his pistol, but Drew was no longer staring down the barrel.

"Who's your client?" The second man asked the first. "More important. What's the pay?" The first man licked his lips. "I know about your partner, the one on the water tank with the sniper rifle. My guy has her in cuffs. You got a thingie in your ear, a phone. Go ahead," the second man said. "Ask her."

"Status check," the first man said. Drew couldn't hear the answer. Based on the first man's expression, Drew guessed the second bounty hunter was telling the truth.

"Okay, then, one more time: who is your client and what's the pay?"

"Screw you, you money grubbing bastards!"

"Oh hell," the second bounty hunter said. "You guys are Corvus." He put a hand to his ear piece.

"You hear that, Jedd? We got the jump on a couple super spies." He frowned. "Jedd?"

A third figure stepped into the scene. This one wore a Colossus javelin painted in the colors of the City Police.

Some combination of adrenalin, anxiety, relief, and shock made Drew laugh. He was pretty sure he sounded like a lunatic.

"You and your accomplices are under arrest! Drop your weapon and put your hands behind your head!" The distortion introduced by the javelin's speaker grille made it impossible for Drew to be sure, but he thought the pilot was the young woman he and Yang met at the city gates. He struggled for a moment, but he remembered… Jewel.

"Hell with that," the second bounty hunter growled.

Several things happened very, very quickly.

The second bounty hunter swung his gun away from the head of the Corvus agent. He aimed at the translucent, pseudo-glass visor of the Colossus, one of the few spots on the javelin not plated with steel. He fired. A glint appeared, a few millimeters over the visor.

Meanwhile, the Corvus agent, gun to his head gone, brought his own weapon to bear. He aimed, fired. Yang grunted. Blood leaked from three more holes in his chest.

The Colossus pumped stun grenades in the direction of the bounty hunter, then the Corvus agent. Both grenades hit their targets, extended metal claws, and dug into flesh. Electricity jolted through each man's body.

Drew's nose wrinkled at the smell, but he didn't really notice; he was busy applying pressure to Yang's wounds with a balled-up apron he grabbed and used as a bandage.

"Killed by Corvus," Yang said, blinking at the sky. "Never liked the crows."

"You're not going to die," Drew told Yang.

Gears whirred, and the helmet on the Colossus opened. Drew glanced up. He was right; Jewel was the javelin pilot.

"I have both shooters subdued," Jewel said, to unseen allies. Her voice was steady, but her eyes looked large with tears. "I'm in process of cuffing them right now. Request medical assistance. No, I'm fine, it's for... a family friend. Yeah, I know the regulations, I also know this is the guy who taught me half of what I know about piloting my javelin. Wait. Scratch that. He's not a family friend, he's a confidential inside source, Imperial intel." Jewel made eye contact with Yang. He moved his head from side to side.

"I don't," he said. "Want to be a bother." His eyelids fluttered.

Medics from the city arrived in an emergency pod, along with techs and CS officers in uniform. The officers didn't seem happy with Jewel. Drew wasn't having a great time, either. The CS people asked questions he didn't know how to answer, like, what was he doing in Black Orchid? What was his relationship to Yang? Did he know why Corvus and hired killers wanted to shoot him?

Drew said he didn't know anything enough times and to enough people that he finally got permission to go to the wash room to rinse the blood off. He expected a sink; the CS escorted him instead into the staff locker room. "I'm gonna need your clothes," the CS, a pudgy older guy, said. The CS held out a plastic bag labeled 'Evidence' and stenciled in red with a form.

"Okay," Drew said, slowly.

Drew stripped naked, leaving his bloody clothes on a pile in the floor.

He was not a proud person, or shy, exactly. Just very aware that his body was not packed with slabs of firm muscle. More... lumpy. Stepping in the staff showers of the City Security office, Drew hung his towel on one of the hooks provided and stepped into the shower area.

"Hey," Jewel said, from underneath a shower nozzle. Technically, with the soap suds, she wasn't really showing much skin. Drew, however, approved of what he saw sufficiently that he trained his attention on the shower controls. He twisted the knob to cold and stepped underneath an arctic surge of water. He gasped. "You're Drew, right?"

"Yeah," Drew said, trying not to sob. "Jewel. Nice to meet you."

"Thank you for helping my uncle," Jewel said. "The medics said if it wasn't for you, he might not have made it."

"He's..." Drew considered. He wasn't sure how to describe his relationship with Yang. "He would have done the same for me. Do you know how he's doing?"

"He's tough. Lost a lot of blood. He's not going dancing anytime soon, but the docs think he's going to live."

"Can I see him?" Drew asked. Jewel shrugged.

"The docs put him in a coma. If you want to watch him sleep-"

"No," Drew said. "That would be weird. I just thought..." He risked a look over his shoulder. Jewel was still framed by the spray of the shower.

"I get it," Jewel said. "He's your commanding officer?" Drew considered. He wanted to keep talking to Jewel, but he also wasn't entirely sure whether she was asking as Yang's friend or as a cop.

"Uncle," Drew said. "That's what he told me to call him." Drew heard a shuddering noise behind him. Jewel walked past him, towards the dressing area.

"I hoped we could be transparent with each other," Jewel said, running fingers through wet hair. "But now I'm thinking we should finish this conversation in a more standard setting."

"Seriously? Right now?" Drew said. He was wet, but he hadn't dared scrub his pits or private bits while Jewel watched.

"You've got ninety seconds, then I send an officer to escort you into an interrogation room," Jewel called out.

"Ninety whole seconds?"

"Eighty-six seconds now."

Drew scrubbed. He'd been in interrogation rooms before, except he'd been the one asking the questions. He wasn't thrilled about the idea of being the one responsible for providing answers. He wasn't sure he had any.


End file.
